


The Relative Merits of Virtual Reality

by ValueTurtle



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Humour, Romance, Virtual Reality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-02
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-13 18:41:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/827561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValueTurtle/pseuds/ValueTurtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A slow Sunday stuck waiting for the TARDIS to finish repairs sends Rose and the Doctor on a simulated adventure. Or three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the TARDIS ficathon over on tumblr.

_If the TARDIS had Sundays, this would be one_ , Rose thought to herself as she flipped the pages of a holographic magazine. The men, women and androids tried to catch her attention but she’d lost interest somewhere around the article for extreme exfoliating and therapeutic skin grafts. She closed the magazine and shoved it roughly to the side; it teetered for a moment before tumbling over the edge of the seat in a wild flap of pages and unamused celebrities.

 

  Rose stifled a sigh and wondered if she should make another round of tea.

 

  They weren’t stuck. The Doctor made sure to repeat that fact several times as he walked around opening closets and rifling through the contents, emerging minutes later, arms laden with technical looking bits and bobs. The TARDIS wasn’t broken; it was just…sluggish. Rose didn’t know what that very accurate and scientific word meant, but apparently fixing a sluggish timeship required a whole toolbox of nothing but wrenches, and a pipe that would have made at least one of her ex-boyfriends feel insecure.

 

  And he’d been working on it for  _hours_ , muttering away to himself. Asking her to hand him the soldering iron, and bits of string, and to hold the straw in his tea steady whilst he sipped it. Rose had half a mind to tell him that he was one raggedy boilersuit away from Mickey the Idiot territory when a burst of wonderfully filthy curse words interrupted her thoughts.

 

  ‘Fuck! Fuckity-fuck! Fuckity-fucking-fuck! Nearly there, come on, -  _shit_  - just a little further. Come on! Oh,  _no!_ No, no, no, no, no! Oh, you wench…  _pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo_!’

 

  There was a hiss of sparks and the Doctor grunted in pain, cutting off the rest of his speech. Rose couldn’t help but laugh: the TARDIS was radiating indignation, like a pissed-off owl with ruffled feathers. Clearly she’d just given the Doctor a nip to the fingers.

 

  ‘That’s lovely. That’s just charming,’ he whined, white trainers – the only part of him she could see - jerking expressively as he complained. ‘I’m down here doing all the hard work and you’re sitting around  _laughing_.’

 

  ‘Not my fault it was funny.’ Rose shrugged. ‘What  _did_  you say to her, anyway? The TARDIS always translates stuff. Well,’ she held off a shiver, remembering Sanctuary Base 6 and the language the Doctor hadn’t recognised. ‘Usually.’

 

  The Doctor didn’t reply immediately. Instead, one last, solid  _clang_  of metal-on-metal rang out, and then he produced a nearly maniacal giggle. He pushed himself out from under the TARDIS console and flashed her a bright and cheeky grin. ‘Only poetry. Thought I’d try to sweet talk the old girl. Let’s see if it did the trick, eh!’

 

  He wriggled his eyebrows and, with a theatrical flourish, gave one of the control cranks a good winding.

 

  Rose opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a finger, head cocking to the side as if he was waiting for something. She could hear a creaking noise, like a hesitant foot on a floorboard, and then –  _BANG!_   The entire TARDIS shook –  _jolted_  – sending both Rose and the Doctor to the ground.

 

  She was used to this, the crash landings and space turbulence, and so she managed to fall without causing an injury. The shock was still great enough to cause her to cry out, “Doctor!” her voice half-surprised, half-exasperated. ‘What  _was_  that?’

 

  He was already standing again, bouncing on the balls of his feet; he offered her a hand and pulled her upright, checking over her to make sure she was unharmed.

 

  ‘Nothing to worry about – had to reroute the power systems and there was an overflow issue. Nearly caused an explosion, but I managed to drop us out of the Vortex in time.’ He waved it away even as she struggled to keep up with his spiel. ‘Pep, Rose! Vim and vigour! That was the problem. The TARDIS just needed a bit more  _bang!_ ’

 

  Deciding she was never going to understand his explanation – or exactly  _how_ close he’d brought them to blowing up – Rose settled on merely rolling her eyes and muttering: ‘Yeah, I reckon it’s got enough bang now. Definitely.’ He  _tsk_ ed, probably at her lack of enthusiasm for his engineering genius. Not being in the mood to pander to his ego, she changed the subject instead. ‘So, on to our next adventure, then?’

 

  ‘Uh,’ the Doctor scratched the back of his neck, getting  _that_  look on his face: the worried one that made him appear mildly constipated. ‘Not quite.’

 

  ‘We’re stuck, aren’t we?’

 

  ‘The thing about cynicism, Rose… the thing about it is that while you  _might_  be correct, there’s a certain joyless – er – ness… to be had in being right….’ He trailed off, clearly realising she wasn’t going to buy it, and winced. ‘Yeah, we’re stuck.’ At her groan of despair, he continued. ‘Not permanently! It’s only until the diagnostics have finished running.’

 

  ‘An’ how long’s  _that_  going to be?’

 

  The question’s tartness was the result of several hours’ fermentation. After waiting so long for the Doctor to finish the TARDIS, the idea of bursting through the front doors and stretching her legs had become Very Important to her (and to her not screaming in frustration). Rose could already feel the edges of her boredom pressing in around her again. Worse, she was acutely aware that they were floating in space, suspended there, with no way of moving forward. Or back. Or diagonally, or any of the other directions the Doctor had shown her since she’d started travelling with him (and there were plenty, as it turned out).

 

  Rose had never been one to feel claustrophobic, but something about being trapped in the TARDIS in an obscure galaxy had her hands tightening into fists, as if she could physically fight off the low-level panic building under her skin.

 

  ‘How long?’ He scratched his head, giving it some thought. ‘Definitely no more than an hour,’ the Doctor said firmly. She glared. ‘All right. Two.’ It intensified. His voice grew more uncertain. ‘Three? Maybe four.’ Her eyes started to water from how hard she was staring; he spread his hands in defeat. ‘Fine.  _Fine._ It’ll be five hours at the  _absolute_ maximum. I promise.’

 

  Rose knew it was ridiculous to be so disappointed, but she couldn’t help how her shoulders slumped.  _Maybe I can find something better to read than that awful magazine_ , she thought.  _Yep, that’s exciting, isn’t it? A novel and a bath and maybe I’ll nip down to the pub later – oh wait, I can’t._

 

  The Doctor frowned and took her hand. ‘Hey. What’s wrong?’

 

  She scrunched up her face. ‘Nothing. Was just, you know, hopin’ to do more today than sit around drinkin’ tea.’

 

  The Doctor went  _hmm_ , this thumb brushing over her knuckles absent-mindedly. He was doing that a lot more often, recently, and Rose was finding it more and more difficult to keep a straight face when he did – the careless contact tended to make her melt, and one day she was sure it would be too much and she’d dissolve, right there, at his feet, a pink-and-yellow puddle that used to be Rose.

 

  ‘Come on,’ he tugged her hand, making her following him as he left the console room. ‘I’ve had an idea. A  _brilliant_  idea – though, honestly, all my ideas tend to be on the brilliant side.’

 

  Rose laughed and jogged to keep up. ‘I’m sorry, have you forgotten that time you gave that priest-king on Mitucula a yo-yo in tribute? He nearly had your head off until you showed him how to walk the dog.’

 

  ‘Key word: nearly, Rose. He  _nearly_  had my head off.’ The Doctor stopped, suddenly, in front of a perfectly ordinary door. She stumbled slightly and he held her arm to keep her steady. ‘Here we are. Who needs to leave the TARDIS to have an adventure? I’ve got a virtual reality room right here, gathering dust! Well, not  _really_  dust, but you get the picture.’

 

  Rose sent him a quizzical look. ‘But why have a virtual reality room when you’ve got the TARDIS? Goes anywhere, doesn’t it?’

 

  It was strange, seeing the Doctor tense, just a little, at such an innocuous question. He relaxed almost immediately, though, giving a half-shrug. ‘Lots of reasons. Bunches. Absolutely oodles of them.’

 

  With a twist of his hand he turned the handle and opened the door, apparently unwilling to offer up even a single example, and dragged them both inside.

 

  The reality of the virtual reality room was actually quite disappointing.

 

  It was small, the room, at least given the near infinite capabilities of the TARDIS. Rose had become almost accustomed to the easy extravagance on the ship, how it provided almost anything one could wish for: endless parks with carefully groomed lawns; libraries crammed with shelves, the jutting mezzanines towering overhead making her dizzy. Swimming pools the size of lakes, which rippled with waves and lapped at her toes as she stood on the concrete shore, debating getting wet. Her bedroom was embarrassingly large, with a reception area ( _who was she going to receive?_ ), an en suite and a balcony – the doors opened on to a garden full of more flowers than she could name.

 

  The virtual reality room was no bigger than her mother’s flat, maybe somewhat smaller. It was all a little… _seventies_. One end had a huge bank of computers with lots of flashing lights and knobs and buttons; Rose could picture it in a black and white photograph, a scientist standing proudly next to it, adjusting his thick-framed glasses. Four oversized chairs dominated the centre of the room, set in a sunken area down two steps. They were sort that had lingered at Oxfam during her childhood; brown leather peeled off the armrests, exposing the stuffing, already filled to bursting.

 

  ‘Right, you take a seat,’ the Doctor directed her, pointing at one of the better maintained chairs, ‘and I’ll get this working. I wonder if I can remember my password…’

 

  ‘How does this work?’ Rose asked as she gingerly sat down.

 

  Immediately, the chair beneath her started shifting, releasing a wheezing, hydraulic sound. She squeaked and tried to scramble away, kicking at the leg rest which had come up to enclose her calves and twisting as the back of the seat undulated behind her. Before she could call for help, the movements slowed to a stop, leaving her intact, safe, and, surprisingly, in one of the most comfortable chairs she’d ever encountered. Perfect lumbar support, the arm rests at a good distance from her body, the just-squishy-enough neck cushion… Rose wondered if her mum could get one for her hairdressing business: the customers would come back again and again, if only for the chairs.

 

  ‘Ooh, a bit like that, I’d say,’ smirked the Doctor, appearing in front of her with two chunky bracelets – one pink and the other blue. ‘These terribly fashionable devices here will hook us up to the Virtual Reality Multi-User Space. Once inside, they’ll allow us to control the scenario using the interface on the top.’ Spinning it around, he showed her a square touchscreen big enough for her thumb to cover. He offered her the pink one, and she slipped it over her hand; there was a small prick of pain on the inside of her wrist, and she looked up at the Doctor in accusation. ‘Watch out. Might feel a little sting.’

 

  ‘Thanks for the warning,’ she muttered. ‘Real timely.’

 

  The Doctor snickered at her complaint, not pausing from setting up the equipment. He plugged her wristband in to something that looked like a power board – it was flat, and rectangular, and overflowed with wires – before flipping switches and doing something that made the entire chair hum excitedly.

 

  ‘Are you nearly done?’ Rose asked, prodding at the bracelet; he batted her hand away with a stern look.

 

  ‘Yep! One more thing!’

 

  He hurried over to the other side of the room and came back with two helmets, or rather, two very helmet-like contraptions. Rose was sure they weren’t something you’d wear just to go riding down to the shops. With his tongue caught between his teeth in concentration, the Doctor placed one on her head carefully, arranging it until the weight was almost unnoticeable, the only indication that it was even sitting there being the tinted glass covering her eyes.

 

  The Doctor sat down in the chair next to her, causing it to groan and grumble. She tried to move her head to see what was happening, but the headpiece, the neck cushion and all the various tubes running from her arm made it nearly impossible to move. Her earlier panic flared back to life, seeming to double in intensity.  _I can’t believe I thought I felt trapped before. That was just a broken TARDIS – I’m actually strapped to a chair, now!_

 

  ‘This is safe, isn’t it?’ Rose tried to pose the question casually, but her heart was fluttering. ‘I mean, maybe we should see if the diagnostics have stopped running.’

 

  ‘Nah, they’ve got hours left!’ There was some further rustling as he finished wiring himself into the system. ‘It’s perfectly safe, Rose, I promise. Like going to sleep!’

 

  ‘Oh God,  _that’s_  reassuring.’

 

  The visor in front of her face flickered to life, showing a peaceful blue screen and words welcoming her to “another Magpie Industries Virtual Reality Multi-User Space experience”.  _Please keep your hands inside the vehicle at all times_ , Rose thought, half-hysterically. An ominous warning in tiny font replaced the start-up message, then blinked away before she could read more than “do not use if pregnant or if suffering from a heart condition”.

 

  At her wrist, Rose felt a shot of warmth. She jerked in the chair as much as she could, trying to escape the tangled mess of wires keeping her still. But, as the sensation crawled up her arm, it left nothing more than relaxation in its wake – really  _deep_ relaxation, enough to make her eyelids heavy, and her jaw crack as she yawned.

 

  ‘Besides,’ the Doctor added, finally, his voice sounding miles away, ‘just remember: it’s all in your head.’


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to neverwhyonlywho for her incredible beta skills!

Rose opened her eyes. She blinked once, twice, clearing her vision of bleariness. In front of her there was no sign of the virtual reality room, or even of the TARDIS; there was just a vast ocean, the sun-warmed railing against her palms, and a pier groaning quietly to itself as it shifted under her feet. The breeze smelled of brine and burnt sugar, of old frying oil and the heavy exhaust of diesel engines. Everything about the scene seemed —  _felt_  — real.   
  
  
  
‘Not bad, eh?’   
  
  
  
Next to her stood the Doctor, leaning back against the railing with his hands in his pockets, the very essence of nonchalance. Rose pretended to consider the question, but couldn’t help breaking into a huge smile; he returned it with one of his own, clearly happy to have impressed her.   
  
  
  
‘It’s amazin’!’ She said earnestly. ‘Where are we?’   
  
  
  
‘Well…’ He tugged at his ear. ‘I suppose you could call this “Bright-skeg-pool”. It’s a composite. A mash-up, if you will, made from all the best bits of the British seaside. Nothing quite like it exists in the real world.’   
  
  
  
Rose spun around, eager to see more of their location, and the illusion of reality broke.   
  
  
  
Behind her was the rest of the pleasure pier, a crowded area crammed with amusement rides and attractions, groups of people, stalls for food and drink. But though the wind continued to tangle her hair, and the water underneath the decking broke against the wooden pylons, there was no movement anywhere else. Everything was as still and as flat as a postcard, a mocking tableau of a busy seaside town. Rose scanned the static moment, half-horrified, taking in the suspended cabins of the Ferris wheel. The child about to lose her balloon. A sea of happy faces, each fixed in a ghastly rictus.   
  
  
  
With a small shudder at the edges of her vision, the scene resumed; animation flowed back into the actors; a seagull caught devouring a chip gave Rose a steely glare and flew away. The music from the rides lurched into life, drowning out the sound of the sea under the electronic cacophony.   
  
  
  
Rose looked sharply at the Doctor, unsurprised to see he wasn’t fazed at all.   
  
  
  
‘What was that? It looked all… frozen. Like someone’d pressed pause or something.’   
  
  
  
‘Buffering. Hard work, producing this —,’ he made a wiggly motion with his hands, gesturing towards everything they could see. ‘The processors need time to catch up. Should be fine now, though.’ The Doctor pushed off from the railing. ‘Come on, what do you say to some candyfloss? I woke up with a tremendous craving.’   
  
  
  
Rose laughed and shook her head. ‘You’re just a sugar junkie. Always in need of a fix.’   
  
  
  
As they set out from the corner of the pier she found herself looking around with a critical eye, searching for the inconsistencies, the errors and bugs that would give the game away. Nothing struck her as out of the ordinary: every face she passed was different, as full of detail as any she’d find in the real world; people bumped and jostled into her, murmuring apologies or sending her annoyed glares. With the sky free of clouds, the weather was already bordering on too warm, and a  _very_ realistic bead of sweat was crawling its way down the back of her neck. Despite all this, there was still something off about the place, something she couldn’t put her finger on.   
  
  
  
She frowned slightly and hurried to catch up with the Doctor, who had quickened his pace as he moved through the crowd.   
  
  
  
‘So,’ Rose began, speaking louder to be heard over the music and the general murmur around them, ‘why did people even bother to make all this? Why didn’t they just go visit Brighton, or Blackpool or somethin’?’   
  
  
  
The Doctor looked amused. ‘Not everyone is as lucky as us, Rose, popping from one time period to the next like you’d visit — well, like  _you’d_  visit Brighton, actually. Which, given the hash you humans seem to make of time travel, is probably a good thing…’   
  
  
  
A kiosk selling food and drink came into view and their meandering found a target. Two people were ahead of them in the queue, which seemed delightfully absurd in an artificial world constructed solely for their amusement.   
  
  
  
‘This particular scenario was created in the 23rd Century,’ he continued, enjoying, as usual, any opportunity to show off his knowledge, ‘during a bout of British Fever. The mania over all things British, I mean. Not the illness that nearly wiped out the Hiloputions.’   
  
  
  
‘Charming,’ she muttered.   
  
  
  
The pair in front of them took their purchases and wandered away, but not before Rose caught a snippet of their conversation.   
  
  
  
‘Our Rodney hasn’t been the same since the accident,’ one of the women said to the other. ‘He’s taking his tea with  _two_  sugars now, not one. I nearly died from the shock of it when he told me, June. I nearly died.’   
  
  
  
Rose suppressed her laughter as best she could.   
  
  
  
They reached the counter, and she ordered chips automatically, the words falling out of her mouth before she even considered other options (there weren’t, really, for her). The Doctor watched avidly as the man serving them collected the spun sugar off the side of the machine’s bowl, gathering up the delicate strands with a wooden stick until he had a bright pink bundle almost as big as his head. When her carton of chips was ready, the Doctor pulled a wallet out of his coat pocket and paid, leading them away from the crowds to enjoy their food.   
  
  
  
Rose grabbed a chip, wincing at how hot it was in her fingers. She pointed it at him before popping it in her mouth. ‘Ha! I knew something was off!’  
  
  
  
Around quickly dissolving sugar, the Doctor went: ‘What?’   
  
  
  
‘I’ve been tryin’ to work out how real things are, an’ that was a slip up, right there: you  _never_  have any money.’   
  
  
  
She gave him a look, daring him to disagree; he shrugged, untroubled by the idea that he came across as destitute half the time. Wordlessly, they swapped her chips for his candyfloss.   
  
  
  
‘It’s all about the — oh, blimey, these are hot! — anyway, it’s all about knowing which details to bother with, and which ones to leave out. Makes for better  _immersion_.’ The Doctor exaggerated the word, his emphasis lending it weight; it sounded impressive enough to have a whole area of study devoted to it. ‘You didn’t notice that the door we just passed is missing its hinges, or that there aren’t enough pylons to keep the pier from sinking into the ocean -’   
  
  
  
Rose went pale. ‘Oh God. I  _really_  didn’t need to know that, thanks.’   
  
  
  
‘It’s hardly going to fall into the sea — it’s a computer simulation, Rose! And it’s not important. Skipping over the little money-exchanging ritual back there, on the other hand, would have torn most people from their suspension of disbelief.’   
  
  
  
She considered his explanation as she picked at the wad of candyfloss, wondering if there was any point in picking apart the virtual world, as well. It would only ruin her fun, constantly looking for the loose threads and unravelling the carefully spun illusion, and having fun was sort of the whole reason they were there in the first place. Besides, she was with the Doctor; he was bound to distract her, or get them in trouble. It was inevitable, and then there’d be no time for her to think about door hinges or pylons or whether or not it was realistic for the Doctor to pay for lunch.   
  
  
  
Having come to her decision, she relaxed and finally ate some of the candyfloss she’d gathered in her fingers. It was soft and fluffy, and, when she placed it on her tongue, tasted just as overbearingly sweet and artificial as she remembered. The Doctor watched her, his eyes following the movements, lingering, for a moment, as she licked away the sugary-sticky residue from her lips.   
  
  
  
 _Any other bloke would probably be thinking about kissing me_ , Rose mused, somewhat wryly.  _The Doctor’s probably thinking about stealing some more candyfloss_. A second later, she was proven to be correct: he plucked off a large, feathery cloud of the stuff and took a bite, winking at her as he did.  _Yep. Far too high-minded for snogging lowly companions_.   
  
  
  
‘Right,’ he sucked on his fingertips in a way Rose was quite sure was illegal in at least four solar systems. ‘I’ve got a pretty girl, I’ve taken her to the pier and bought her dinner -,’   
  
  
  
‘ _Lunch_ ,’ Rose corrected quickly, wanting to preserve the compliment he’d paid her before he could take it back.  _Or_ , she thought, _make it mildly insulting like last time._    
  
  
  
The Doctor rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. ‘Lunch, then. What I’m trying to say is that I think I need to win you a prize. Something big and pink and slightly sad looking.’   
  
  
  
 _That’s a date, Doctor. What you’re describing is a date._    
  
  
  
‘You think you’ve got it in you?’ Rose raised an eyebrow. ‘Those games aren’t child’s play, you know.’   
  
  
  
‘I’ll have you know that I am a three-time Olympic Hoopla champion.’   
  
  
  
‘Impressive.’   
  
  
  
‘ _Very_.’   
  
  
  
After disposing of their rubbish, Rose and the Doctor walked back to the line of stalls. Tucked in between the rides and attractions, the stands were brightly coloured, decorated with strings of balloons and lights. Every surface, from the walls to the ceiling, bristled with prizes on display. They passed various games — floating ducks bobbing on water, a strength skill test with light bulbs flashing, wooden clowns with gap-filled smiles — until they reached a more sedate booth. Peering inside, she could see a simple set-up, nothing more than a pyramid of empty milk bottles on a stand. A whole rack of over-large, over-stuffed… bears (dogs?  _Mice?_ ) drooped away in the corner, their sewn-on mouths curling upwards in sad smiles.   
  
  
  
The booth —  _everything_ — was perfect.  _You know, if this is meant to be a date and all._    
  
  
  
‘ _Gooooooood_  afternoon, sir and madam,’ the showman said, doffing his hat to Rose. ‘How are you this fine day?’ He continued immediately, cutting off their responses, the patter tripping off his tongue in a well-practiced rhythm. ‘Do you dare try your hand at the classic funfair diversion: “The Milk Bottle Game”? All you need to do is knock over my bottles in one decent throw, and you’ll win a prize from the back row. Only two pound a toss, or, if you’re feeling a twinge in that shoulder of yours sir, a little stiff in your pitching arm, then you can try three goes for five quid.’   
  
  
  
The Doctor whipped out his wallet again, passing over a careless handful of notes to the stall operator who carefully inspected the cash: he held it up to the light before grudgingly accepting payment.   
  
  
  
‘Thank you, thank you, that all seems to be in order.’ He produced a hessian sack from under the counter. ‘Now, if you’ll just reach into my sack here, sir, and grab one of my balls — I’m sorry, madam, are you feeling quite all right?’   
  
  
  
Rose nodded, waving away the concern both the showman and the Doctor had for her sudden and violent coughing fit.   
  
  
  
When he had picked out a ball, the Doctor tossed it into the air, testing its weight; it landed in his palm with a flat  _smack_. He rubbed it on his shirt, polishing its surface to a ruby red, and gave Rose a grin. ‘You know, I used to fancy myself as a bit of a cricketer.’   
  
  
  
‘You? Fancy yourself? Hard to believe.’ She grinned back, her tongue poking out between her teeth.   
  
  
  
‘All right, all right,’ the Doctor said, as petulant as a small child.  _I wonder if he’s always been this touchy about his vanity, or if it’s something he’s picked up in the 900-odd years he’s been knocking about the universe?_  ‘Enough of that. I need absolute quiet if I’m going to win you that — actually, I have no idea what that is.’ He frowned, and gestured towards the large stuffed animals in a vague way. ‘If I’m going to win you one of those.’   
  
  
  
Rose mimed zipping closed her lips.   
  
  
  
The Doctor began warming up. He rotated his shoulder and bent back his arm in a stretch, his face drawn in Very Serious lines as he calculated the distances and angles involved in knocking over the milk bottles. Walking backwards to give himself space, he narrowed his eyes, took a deep and steadying breath, and ran up to the counter; without breaking his stride, he threw the ball, the movement smooth and with the force of his whole body behind it.   
  
  
  
Rose watched the ball fly through the air, nothing more than a red blur. It hit the bottles dead centre, and the impact burst apart the top two layers; they crashed down on to the plate below, knocking into the bottom layer. Rose held her breath as the remaining bottles teasingly wobbled back and forth, flicking her gaze between the Doctor’s expression (stern with concentration) and the game. Finally, achingly slowly, the bottles rocked to a stop - upright and still.   
  
  
  
For a moment there was silence. Then:   
  
  
  
‘What?’ said the Doctor. ‘ _What_?’ That was — that was a  _perfect_  throw!’ He turned to Rose in appeal. ‘The angle and trajectory; the force. Perfect. Utterly without fault.’   
  
  
  
The showman shook his head sadly. ‘It was very good sir, very good — one of the best I’ve seen, no doubt. But m’fraid the game’s a bit harder than it looks.’ He quickly reassembled the milk bottles and picked the ball off the ground. ‘Would you like to try again?’   
  
  
  
The Doctor looked as if he would refuse, but Rose saw his eyes drift back to the bright pink toy. He’d set both his literal and figurative sights on it, and she couldn’t help but wonder  _why_ : was it the challenge involved, or was it because this was meant to be a date?  _Or does he think it’s funny? It’d be just like him to find “Earth romantic practices” amusing._  
  
  
  
Rose rolled her eyes in self-deprecation. Trying to work out the Doctor’s motives, even for something as silly as winning a toy, never worked out the way one hoped. Predictably, she was no closer to an answer by the time he squared his shoulders and held out a hand for the ball.   
  
  
  
With an even more determined air ( _The Oncoming Bowler_ , Rose thought, stifling a giggle) the Doctor repeated his pre-throwing ceremony — flipping the ball in the air, rubbing it on his shirt; wriggling around to loosen his muscles; counting out the steps back from the counter and breathing in. Her own breath was caught in her throat, tension — ridiculous and unwarranted, given the stakes - keeping it there until her lungs hurt.   
  
  
  
Sprinting forward, he made his pitch. The ball hit the lower level on this attempt, and the difference was immediate: the entire structure exploded outwards, the bottles tumbling in every direction.   
  
  
  
The Doctor punched the air in victory.   
  
  
  
‘ _Howzat!_ ’ He shouted, and Rose whooped. She flung herself into his arms and he spun her around, both as excited as if she’d finally managed to pronounce an alien planet, or as if they’d saved the day. It was all exhilaration and dizziness, the smell of the Doctor in her nose, and his hands, warm and firm on her back.   
  
  
  
Slowly, ( _relunctantly?_ Rose wondered), they came back to themselves: her feet touched the ground again; they disentangled their arms; the Doctor smoothed his jacket, freeing it of the wrinkles placed there by their fierce hug.   
  
  
  
The stall operator watched them with amusement-laced condescension.   
  
  
  
‘Another fine shot, sir,’ the man said. ‘Even better than the last. And it deserves a prize!’ He reached up to the awning and plucked down a small, blue hedgehog; it was misshapen and fluffy and leaned to the side when he placed it on the counter. ‘Congratulations!’ Clearly their faces expressed their disbelief, because he tapped a sign outside his stall, one Rose suspected hadn’t been there until just then. ‘You’ve got to knock the bottles to the ground — free and clear of the stand - to win the prize from the back row.’   
  
  
  
Rose groaned. The Doctor spluttered in indignation. The showman picked his nails.   
  
  
  
‘The game’s rigged,’ she told the Doctor as she rubbed his shoulder.  _I must spend half my time patching up his ego! Thank God he has a nice bum, or I’d definitely be rethinking this companion business._ He gave her a small smile and squeezed her hand. ‘Has to be. It’s all right: no point winnin’ a toy if I can’t even take it back to the TARDIS, yeah?’   
  
  
  
‘That’s not the  _point_. It’s the principle of the matter. It’s about me being a man of my word, and I promised I’d win you a — a —  _oh_! it’s a  _gorilla_! Of course!’ He beamed brightly for a second in self-satisfaction; the smile dissolved just as quickly, and was replaced with a solemn expression. With all the weight of a sworn vow, he said: ‘I  _will_  win you that pink gorilla, Rose Tyler. Wait and see.’   
  
  
  
He snatched the ball from the showman’s waiting hand. Tossed it up. Polished it. Squirmed until he was limber. Retreated a few paces; breathed in. Ran.   
  
  
  
The ball went wide, and Rose’s first thought was,  _oh, he’s cocked it up!_  Missing the bottles entirely, it hit the side of the stand instead, then changed course flying towards the showman and striking him right between his hairy brows. Her eyes followed the ball’s path, her mouth falling open in disbelief, as it bounced off the man’s forehead and struck the edge of the counter; somehow maintaining momentum, it whizzed past the milk bottles ( _again!_ ), rebounded off the bare planks lining the back off the game booth and flew directly at the pins. They broke apart at once, spilling over the front of the stand in a cascade of worn wood and scratched white paint, landing, jumbled, on the floor.   
  
  
  
‘Ha!’ The Doctor crowed giddily. He put his hands in his pockets and sidled closer to her. ‘Go on. Say it.’   
  
  
  
‘Say what?’ Rose arched an eyebrow. She probably  _would_  have told him how brilliant he was — which was what he was angling for, obviously — had he not fished for the compliment. ‘That you’re a hazard? A danger to yourself and others? You’re a menace.’ She smirked. ‘Could’ve taken his eye out.’   
  
  
  
‘Pah! He’s fine. Look at him!’ The showman was clutching at his face and glaring at them both. The Doctor shuffled his feet guilty. ‘Er. Right. Sorry about that. Got a bit carried away — you know how it is.  _Anyway_ …’   
  
  
  
He glanced pointedly at the prize display until the man grabbed down a large pink “gorilla” and thrust it into Rose’s arms.   
  
  
  
‘Thank you!’ She said brightly to the operator; he grunted in response.   
  
  
  
The Doctor placed a hand on Rose’s back and subtly guided her away from the game booth. He was so…  _handsy,_ this version of the Doctor. Sometimes it felt like a game she played in primary school, one where you had to maintain contact with another person: elbow-to-elbow, hip-to-hip, hands on shoulders and fingers holding wrists; game over if you stop touching, even for a second. Rose squeezed her stuffed toy, wondering what would happen if she broke contact with the Doctor, even in this virtual reality world constructed out of data and memory and the interplay of chemicals in her bloodstream.   
  
  
  
She linked her arm with his and rested her cheek on his shoulder.   
  
  
  
‘Time to move on?’ The Doctor asked, looking down at her with a slightly bemused expression.   
  
  
  
‘What?’ She pretended to pout. ‘No spin on the Ferris wheel?’   
  
  
  
‘Talk about boring. Could do that any old time!’ As she rolled her eyes, he scrolled through the options on his wristband. When he found what he was looking for, he grabbed her hand, threading their equally sticky fingers together. ‘Hold on tight,’ the Doctor warned. ‘It’s not quite as bumpy a ride as a Portkey, but it’s close.’


End file.
